There is something intoxicating about a new name. A new meaning. A new descriptor. A new way of presenting oneself to oneself, to the gods, to the world.

My name is Phoenix.

When I was born, my parents gave me a feminine name and raised me as a girl.

When I rescued myself from my last abusive relationship, I gave myself the name of the goddess I had begun to see in my dreams and out of the corners of my eye; the one whose mythology mirrored the tragedies and graces of my life in so many ways.

I grew into that name, claimed it, relished its curves and the way it rolled off the tongue. It was the symbol of a claim to my own freedom, my own worth, my own decisions and choices and consequences. I reveled in telling people that I’d named myself, that it was a gift I gave to me because I wanted to.

Just over five years passed with my chosen name, and a god with the heart of fire and love as big as a broken world found me, claimed me, and started to chip away at the things I thought I knew about who I was.

I met and fell madly in love with my nesting partner, who is a student of a lineaged, initiatory, oral tradition. After several months of poking at it suspiciously, I chose to begin learning. One year later, I have taken oaths and been initiated myself.

My name is also FireHeart, the public name given me at Ostara.

Soon after I was given my public name, it became more and more difficult to remain Rhiannon, the name I chose the last time I burned to ashes and was reborn. This time, my name has more weight and a deeper meaning than any I’ve previously had.

The middle name I’ve chosen is Veritas: truth.

In hopes that I am able to live up to such a big and meaningful name,

Phoenix Veritas

@phoenixveritas [Twitter]